The 1st Son
by OsirisBlue
Summary: Sequel to Flesh of the Forbidden Fruit, Mahdi Peyroux tells the shocking truth about how his mother and the Undertaker really met.
1. Chapter 1

**The 1st Son**

 **1**

 **April 27th, 1992 8:30 p.m.**

Not for the first time, Ronnie Peyroux wished she had as many eyes as Argus, while she walked up the 2nd arrondissement of Paris. Paris was like a mysterious girlfriend whose revealed secrets about herself, little by little. She'd only been in Paris a little over three months, and she'd discovered 10 covered passages. Her most favorite one so far had been the Galerie Vivienne; Ronnie loved the layout of it, with its mosaic tiles, tea shops, and bistros. What she loved the most was Libraire Jousseaume a bookshop that sold rare books that the avid bibliophile would kill to possess. She felt right at home in the City of Lights.

Ronnie was a 17 year-old American expatriate. She'd struck up a romance with Mark, a famous professional wrestler who she'd met at a New Jersey summer camp. Their union had resulted in her pregnancy. Because Mark was 9 years her senior and a married man, Ronnie fled the United States to avoid the potential scandal. She left a note explaining to her parents why she was leaving, but didn't implicate Mark. It was a difficult decision, having to leave her old life behind abruptly. But she didn't regret her decision. It was best for her and her unborn child.

The sky was blanketed with inky purple clouds. Ronnie would have to retire to the boarding house soon. Frédérique, the landlady, was strict about punctuality. While she took an extra liking to Ronnie a little bit more than the other girls, that wouldn't stop her from punishing Ronnie from walking in late.

Before she went in for the night, Ronnie headed to the Rue Montorgeuile, a street lined with restaurants, bakeries, fish markets, and cheese shops. She brought a baguette, fruit, cheese, and slabs of chocolate to take home with her. She paid the venders and went on her way.

She was walking up the steps of the boarding home when she felt something warm trickling down her jeans. She hurried up the stairs, thinking she had to go to the bathroom. As she made it in, the trickling progressed to a leak. She suddenly realized what was happening.

"Frédérique!" cried Ronnie, entering the kitchen, " _Oú est-tu?"_

Frédérique appeared, wearing a black shawl over her red silk nightgown.

"Ronnie," she said in her throaty French accent, "What eez eet?"

Before Ronnie could answer, a gushing feeling, as if a water balloon had popped between her legs, spilled through her jeans. And then the worst pain, like someone had her cervix in a steel grip. She let out a cry of pain, holding on to the table for support.

Frédérique pulled up a chair and sat Ronnie in it. Then she called for Clemence, the coproprietor of the building.

" _Appeler l'ambulance,"_ Ronnie heard her say, " _le bébé vient!_ "

As Frédérique went into Ronnie's room and gathered up her belongings. Meanhile Clemence timed Ronnie's contractions and got her to control her breathing.

The ambulance arrived a few minutes later. Frédérique and Clemence accompanied Ronnie to the hospital. The paramedics drove them to Hôpital Hôtel-Dieu, where she they quickly found a bed for her and put monitors on her to keep track on the baby's heart rate and her contractions. In the midst of the pain, she couldn't help but feel a little excited. This was it. She was about to become a mother.

In the wee hours of the morning, Ronnie's cervix became fully dilated. Frédérique held Ronnie's hand as the doctor assisted Ronnie.

"Ok, deep breadz," said the doctor. "Now push."

Ronnie grunted, grasping Frédérique's hand as she pushed with a mighty effort .

" _Trés bon,"_ said the doctor as Ronnie took a couple of deep breaths before the doctor told her to continue to push.

" _Poussez, poussez,"_ said the doctor, " _Ne vous arrêtez pas."_

It felt as if knives of fire were ripping through her lower pelvis. Ronnie cried out, nearly crushing Frédérique's hand as she continued to push."

" _Tu le fais bien,"_ said the doctor, "I see ze head."

Ronnie pushed with all the strength she could muster. Moments later, the baby was delivered.

"Eet's a boy," the doctor declared.

Exhausted relief came over Ronnie as she listened to the sound of her crying baby. After they cleaned him and snipped the umbilical cord, the doctor gave the baby to Ronnie.

" 'Ere ees your leetle boy." said the doctor.

" Ah, 'e is beautiful," said Clemence.

"Yes, he is," said Ronnie, looking down at those wide eyes that were peering up at her. A combination of elation and grief hit her, making her burst into tears. She had the baby, but it was Frédérique and Clemence who'd witnessed her son's birth, not her parents, and most of all, not Mark. They were not there to share her joy.

 _A few days later..._

Ronnie returned to the boarding home with her baby. Everyone crowded around her, wanting to hold him. It was a while before she had time to herself.

Ronnie had decided to name him Mahdi Hendrix Peyroux. Mahdi was an African name meaning "guided one". She'd given him Hendrix as a middle name to honor Jimi Hendrix.

After feeding, burping and changing him, Ronnie put Mahdi in his bassinet and gotten out her notebook. She had a poem inside that was just dying to be written, and she wasn't able to do it in the hospital. Picking up a pen, she started scribbling away.

 _Alas! He has burst forth from_

 _his liquid coccoon, so his journey_

 _post womb has begun_

 _My heart rejoiced with a canary's_

 _song, the minute his skin made_

 _contact with mine_

 _The infrangible vow of motherhood_

 _has been activated within me, I pledge_

 _not only to be his mom, but his tutor,_

 _his guide_

 _Welcome to the world, my sweet little_

 _cub, you helped see the lioness that I_

 _am and have always been_


	2. Chapter 2

As a kid, when my mother suspected me of wrongdoing she would take me outside to our backyard. I called it the 'Jungle', because it had all kinds of wild weeds and vines growing from it, and the grass grew up to my knees. In our backyard was the Verity Ring, which was basically, a large circle that my mom spent hours carefully forming with a plank and garden rollers. We would get into this ring and speak our truths, or confess our sins, and to atone for that sin, we make some sort of contribution. That consisted of some community service type thing like feeding the homeless or reading a book to kids. My mother didn't believe in corporal punishment. She considered them an outdated, barbaric concept that did irreparable psychological damage.

I now stand in this Verity Ring, as I have done so many times over the years with a shocking confession. I'm doing it for my mother, because she deserves justice. She deserves for her truth to be heard. All these years she has kept it to herself, while a monster walks among us. So here goes.

You may have read Flesh of the Forbidden Fruit, where my seventeen-year-old mother and one called the Undertaker strike up a secret romance that resulted in my conception. The truth is, that story is 97% fiction. Yes, my mother met the Undertaker at a campground in New Jersey, and yes, I am a result of that. But how it was told in the story, isn't how it truly happened in real life.

How do I know? I wrote the story. I wrote it to compensate for the disgust, horror, and trauma of the real story. This is how I wanted to envision how they met. But fairy tales benefit no one in the end, it's time to tell the painful truth.

Stay tuned.


	3. Chapter 3

**The First Son**

My face puckered in horror at the text my mother's girlfriend, Bertie has sent me for my mom.

"Yeah, baby this pussy is what you crave like White Castle?!" I read out loud my voice high pitched in disgust. "MOM, WHAT THE ACTUAL F-" I caught myself. I was always funny about swearing in front of Mom, "FUNNEL CAKES!" I finished.

"Mahdi," said Mom, in her fruity, laid back voice, "First off, you are a 26-year-old man, say fuck like other people your age. Secondly, why is it so shocking to you, after all these years, that I'm a highly sexual person?"

"I know that," I said, "I just don't want the mental imagery is all."

We were in Mom's backyard, watching the sunset. Mom's sunflowers, zinnias, and daffodils seemed to come alive in the warm glow of blood orange hue with a splash of gold. The air smelled of the sweet cinnamon coming from Mom's oatmeal raisin cookies that she baked earlier.

"Why are you so adamant about not using cuss words in front of me, Mahdi?" asked Mom. Her golden-brown complexion seemed radiant bathed in the setting sunlight. "My ears are not so delicate you know, you forget I grew up with Claudine Peyroux as my mother."

"I find it dishonorable to curse in front of my mom," I said solemnly.

My mom beamed as she ran her long fingers through my curly hair that was so much like hers before she locked it.

"You have grown up to be such a fine young man," she said, looking at me with that familiar fixture of sadness and happiness. Mom always did that when looking directly in my eyes. She said it was because they were the same color as my father's: granny smith apple green. I wonder who he was and why did he make her cry?

"I wouldn't be the fine young man I am without the fine middle-aged women sitting before me," I said grinning mischievously.

Mom laughed, her neatly locked hair falling around her dark, starry eyes.

"I could never deny you if I wanted to," she said, "Except for when you say funnel cake instead of fuck."

"Oh, nice comeback," I said. "Reflexes sharp as ever, Sarabi."

"Thank you, Simba," said Mom, flexing her bicep. "How's Nadira? I haven't seen her around lately."

"She's been busy preparing for her finals," I said. "I might ask her to take a break with me and go to the mall."

"Please do," said Mom. "I'm not knocking the need for education, that's always important, but damn, you kids aren't machines you know."

"You know how much uptight Nadira gets when it comes to studying, Mom," I said. "She makes Hermione Granger look like Kelly Bundy."

"Jesus, that bad, huh?" said Mom, looking thoughtfully, her index finger tracing her upper lip. "Soon, she'll be disappointed to see that life is more than good grades and Dean's lists."

"She knows that, mom," I said. "She's just competitive as hell. Has to be the best at everything."

"And that's why you love her," said Mom matter-of-factly. "Your need to challenge each other to do better motivates you guys and keeps the relationship fresh."

The sun was out of sight completely. Now the flowers were shrouded in blue, swaying gently in the slight breeze. My mom sighed, as she glanced at her watch, looking tired, and for once, older. 20 years of working as a journalist with documentaries covering human rights abuse, blood diamond trade, and other controversies did that to you. My mom had seen the ugliest sides of humanity and still remained loving and kind. She was now working on a piece concerning celebrity sexual assaults. She had been inspired by the #MeToo movement that was gaining momentum and worked sleepless nights piecing together the documentary. She told me she had an exclusive story, one person that she knew for sure had gotten away with his horrible crimes. She wouldn't tell me the intricate details, and I didn't press. Mom didn't play around when it came to her professional life and personal life. She made sure a fine line was drawn between the two.

The two of us went back inside the house through the kitchen where the oatmeal raisin cookies resided in a ceramic Chewbacca cookie jar that Mom made for Bertie for her 38th birthday in June. Bertie was a big Star Wars nerd, something me and her shared. I grabbed a few from the jar before following Mom in living room, where she was gathering all her belongings.

"How long will you be gone for this time?" I asked. Even though I was used to my mom being going for long stretches of time, the goodbyes still made me feel like the little boy I'd once been, crying, attempting to chase after the Taxi that Mom was in, but Grandma and _abuelo_ both held me, consoling me as the Taxi turned the corner and disappeared.

"Nothing's etched in stone yet," said Mom, slipping on a black denim jacket and beanie hat, "But most likely a month. Don't look so down," she added, observing my disappointed look, "you still have Bertie, Nadira, and Kaif here, I'll be back before you even know it."

"I know," I said, "I just wish you didn't work so hard. I can't remember the last time you and I sat in the garden and talked like that."

My mother gave a small, sad smile.

"I'm sorry, Prince," she said. "I promise, after I wrap this documentary up, I'll take a long and well-deserved break. And I won't break that promise like last time."

She hugged me tight and kissed me on the cheek. I smelled the lemongrass that she had an affinity for.

"See you soon, Mom," I said, as she headed out the door. "I love you."

"Love you more, sweetie," said Mom. She was about to close the door behind her, when suddenly, she turned around and said, "Mahdi, one more thing."

"Yeah?"

A sly grin crept upon my mom's face.

"Text Bertie and tell her when I return, I shall eat that pussy like a watermelon!"


	4. Chapter 4

**The 1** **st** **Son**

 **Chapter 4**

I had that recurring dream again. I dreamt I was a three-year-old boy again with Mom, running through the lavender fields of the French countryside. Arms spread like an eagle in full flight, wind passing through my splayed fingers, I shrieked with careless joy as I lost myself in the vast sea of purple, little golden balls of sunlight bouncing all around me.

"Mahdi," said a deep, but rich, warm voice. "It's time to go, son."

I spun around quickly. A man with tightly coiled hair was holding Mom's hand, grinning broadly. He was a solid 6'4, broad-shouldered with golden-brown skin, slanted eyes and high cheekbones. He beamed as I hurtled toward him, his eyes twinkling in the sunlight.

Eyes that were granny smith apple green.

Like mine.

Just before I could tackle him midair in a hug, he shattered into a million pieces. The tiny particles that had been him, hung in midair for a few seconds, before slowly falling to the ground, evaporating into nothingness.

I awoke suddenly as if I'd been slapped in the face. A millisecond later, the familiar of disappointment and longing crashed down on me like a tidal wave. It took me a few seconds to realize what had awaken me. Logic's 'Fade Away' was blaring on my cell phone. Groaning, I grab my smartphone from the night stand. It was Bertie.

Bertie worked grueling hours as a doctor in the emergency room, so she'd let me know if she wasn't coming home. But, she usually sent a text message. She only called when it was serious. _What was so serious that Bertie's calling at 2 in the morning?_ I wondered as I answered the phone.

"Hello?" I said hoarsely.

"Mahdi," said Bertie's voice from the other end. Even though she'd lived in New Jersey for 22 years, her voice still carried the pleasant, silvery lilt of her native land, Belize, which broadened when she was in distress, like now. "You have to come down to the hospital quick! Your mom has been hurt!"

"Hurt?" I said, sitting upright, as if I'd just received an electric enema. "What happened? How bad?"

"No time to explain!" said Bertie, "get down here as soon as you can!"

I slipped on my glasses as I got up. Then, I grabbed a pair of maroon sweatpants from my computer chair and slipped them on, before putting on a pair of running shoes with no socks. Then, I grabbed my keys and bolted downstairs to the garage and got into my car.

Mom knew the risks she faced in her chosen profession- She had received death threats, attempts to soil her good name had been attempted, but she always came out on top. She didn't let the wealth and status of her opposers intimidate her. She feared no one.

 _But, she isn't invincible._ I thought as I made a right onto Bergen Street.

I arrived at Beth Israel Hospital 10 minutes later. After parking my car, I half walked, half jogged to the emergency room entrance. There, I ran into Samir, my mother's friend and co-producer. The front of his gray hoody was stained with blood. My heart dropped into my stomach once I saw that, because I knew that it was my mother's blood.

"Wh-wh-what happened? I stammered? "Is Mom okay?"

"We'll explain once we get inside," said Samir in his light East London accent, "we're blocking the entrance."

The emergency room was packed. Samir and I had trouble moving around, because the corridors were filled patients on gurneys, and EMS bringing more patients in. I nearly knocked over a guy walking with his IV stand to the bathroom.

Finally, we reached the nurse's station. Samir told me that Bertie wanted us to wait for her in the staff room, so we headed there, where there was only one blonde-haired bespectacled nurse, eating a sesame seed bagel.

"Coffee? Tea? Orange Juice?" asked Samir.

"Orange juice is fine," I said sitting at a table that had a few coffee stains on it.

Samir poured orange juice from a jug and gave it to me in a small plastic cup, before pouring himself some coffee. Then he sat across from me.

"So, what happened to Mom?" I asked, getting straight to the point.

"We were in the studio, getting ready for editing," said Samir. His eyes were bloodshot, though not from being up at nearly 3 in the morning. ", Ronnie forgot something in her car, so she ran outside to get it. A few minutes later, I heard gunshots. I ran outside to find her—" Samir broke off midsentence, choking on his words, tears running down his face. He took a deep breath and continued.

"I found her lying on the ground, she'd been hit in the ribcage, shoulder, and knee. But your mom. She's incredible, she is. Giving me instructions, so calm, as if we're discussing renovation plans for the floor. As we're waiting for the ambulance, can you believe it? She starts talking to me about soccer, because she knew I played often during my summers spent in Somalia. She'd just got fucking shot, innit? And she's asking me about soccer! Unbelievable."

Underneath the shock and horror, I couldn't help but laugh at Samir's disbelief. Only Mom could get shot and have a friendly discussion of soccer during it all.

"Did she mention who shot her all?" I asked, finally gulping down my orange juice.

"Now that you mention it, she did," said Samir, "not that it's much help, because the shooter was masked."

"Where is Mom now?" I asked.

"She's in the operating room," said Samir, taking a sip of coffee. "Bertie wanted to stay in there with her, but, you know, she has other patients to attend to. We just have to play the waiting game for now."

While we waited, I took advantage of the silence to consider who would want to take a crack at Mom. The list was long for sure, but I was trying to figure out who Mom had pissed off recently. A year ago, there was a big story about New Jersey politicians who were linked to a multimillion dollar criminal organization and were receiving campaign donations from them. Mom had exposed all of them, leading not only to the arrests of those involved, but in the resignation of ten councilmen in Essex County and the firing of many law enforcement officials. I wouldn't be surprised if it was someone looking for revenge.

It was a quarter to five when Bertie finally emerged. She plopped down in a nearby chair, her long braided hair falling all over her face. I'm sure it was the first time she had sat down in ages. Even though Samir and I were anxious to hear about Mom's condition, we didn't press Bertie right away. She'd been working in the E.R. for damn near 13 hours, so exhaustion on stop of distress was sure to have her on edge. Samir poured her a cup of coffee, while I checked my phone for messages.

At long last, Bertie swept her hair out her face. Her eyes were puffy from crying. Weariness was etched in every line of her russet face.

"She's in stable condition," said Bertie, her voice coming out in a croak. "The surgeons managed to extract the bullets. One bullet broke a few ribs, but they didn't puncture anything or hit a major organ. She'll survive.

The tight knot in my chest seemed to undo itself. Samir let out a sigh of relief.

"Shit," I said suddenly, remembering something. "I forgot to let Grandma and Grandpa know."

"I figured you would," said Bertie with a small smile on her face. "I saved you the trouble and called them myself. They're on their way down here now. But Nadira would want to know what's going on, if you haven't called her yet."

"And I'm sure he hasn't," said Samir, grinning slightly.

"Shut up," I muttered, dialing Nadira's number.

Nadira's phone rang 4 times before Nadira answered.

"Hot Mahd!" Nadira's exclaimed, though it was less enthusiastic than usual. She must have been studying all night. I wish she'd take a break from those goddamned exams.

"Good morning, my sweet little honey graham," I said, my voice lowering an octave. Samir snickered slightly. "How are you?"

"Tired from studying these goddamn exams," said Nadira, huffing. I could hear the sound of a pencil tapping rapidly on the desk in the background. "The finals are going to be the longest two days of my life. Anyways, how are you, handsome? You didn't give me my 5 o'clock phone sex call today, what's up with that?

I fought back the desire to laugh.

"For good reason," I said, "I've been at Beth Israel Hospital since 3 in the morning."

There was only a slight pause.

"Hospital?" Nadira said in a quiet voice. She hated hospitals. "What're you doing at the hospital?"

"It's…. it's my mom," I said, "She's-well she's been shot."

" _No!"_ Nadira screamed, causing me to jump in alarm. "Oh, my goodness, she's not dead, is she?"

"No, she's still alive," I said. "Suffered some injuries, but according to Bertie, she'll survive."

"I'm on my way Mahdi," said Nadira at once, "See you soon, I love you."

"I love you to-"I tried to say, but all I got was the beep of the phone indicating the call had ended.

Bertie's shift was over by 6:30. After she changed into street clothes, we went inside Mom's room. My mom was laying on the bed, drainage tubes coming from her chest. A heart monitor was hooked up to her, as well as an IV, which was near empty. Her right shoulder and left knee were wrapped up in bandages. It wasn't a pretty sight.

When she had heard the door open, Mom raised her head up a little. Seeing who it was, her eyes twinkled as she smiled weakly.

"Hey, baby," said Bertie tenderly, stroking Mom's hair. "How're you feeling?"

My mom didn't answer right away. She was reveling in the sensation of Bertie's touch.

"I feel angelic at the moment," she said finally.

"Angelic?" Samir repeated. He looked a little scared.

"Yeah," said Mom. "I'm holy, Sam. Get it? Holy."

I laughed, while Samir and Bertie looked on in stunned belief. Who else would find humor in getting shot?

"Forgive me, Ron," said Samir, "but I'm still not quite adjusted to your twisted sense of humor just yet."

"You should be well-adjusted, Sam," said Ron, "You've known me and worked with me for five years. Anyway, it's the morphine. Once it wears off, I won't be in a joking mood."

"Do you remember anything about the assailant, Ronnie?" Bertie asked, "besides them being masked?"

"No, like I told Samir, it happened so quickly," said Mom, "but as I lay on the ground, I did hear the shooter shout for the drive to pull off. It was a young man's tenor, early to mid-20s I would guess."

"Don't worry, Ron," said Samir, "our secret surveillance cameras I had installed a few months ago will surely have gotten a glimpse of the shooter as well as the car and license plates."

"Good," said Mom, "you might want to call Jeanette as well."

Jeanette was an investigative reporter who was well connected and collaborated with Mom often on her projects. She was both respected and feared among those who knew her.

"We'll talk later Ron," said Samir, "I have to change, and then I'll contact Jeanette and go back to the studio. This is a time to be with your family."

"Thanks, Sam," said Mom, "I owe you big time."

"You owe me nothing, sis," said Samir, waving a hand. "Just recover and don't overexert yourself over the next few weeks."

He said goodbye to Bertie and me as he walked out.

"Don't you think it's time that you walk away from this?" said Bertie.

I wasn't surprised. Bertie had been springing this question on Mom for two years now. She had written an article in the Star Ledger that revealed secret tapes of high-ranking law enforcement officials bragging about falsifying evidence in the cases of over 200 suspects. Envelopes filled with ricin were sent to Mom's office for a few weeks, and the bomb squad even discovered a well-hidden bomb under Mom's car.

Since then, Mom had to fight hard to reassure Bertie she would be okay. She made sure she called Bertie and texted her every chance she had. Bertie wouldn't sleep until she talked to my mother on video chat. This wasn't enough for Bertie. She tried convincing Mom to retire from journalism, but to no avail.

"You know what Bertie?" said Mom, "It is time."

"What?" Bertie and I said at the same time. Like me, Bertie had been expecting my mother to put up a fight.

"Is it the morphine talking?" I asked.

"Not at all," said Mom, with a small smile. "I've been contemplating it for a while now. I've been doing this for a good chunk of my life, but I was starting to feel like it was time to move on to other things, you know? Like focusing on my art, advocating for more community gardens in Newark, things like that. Hell, I think it's time you and I made it official, Bertie."

Bertie clutched my mother's hand tight, her kindly brown eyes bright with blazing affection.

"It's about damn time," she said, though her smile was so wide, her eyes appeared slanted.

"I hate to ruin this moment," said Mom, "but if you don't mind Bertie, I'd like to talk to Mahdi alone for a few minutes."

"Sure," said Bertie, "I'll be on the lookout for your parents. They're on their way up here."

My mom grimaced.

"First I get shot, now I have to deal with my mom's crying over me," she said, "What on Earth did I do to deserve this?"

Bertie wagged her finger as she turned the knob.

"Don't bemoan your mother caring for you that deeply," she said. "some people don't have that luxury."

And she closed the door behind her.

There were a few seconds of silence between my mom and me. Only the beeps from the heart monitor and the ticking of the clock could be heard.

"How're you feeling, kiddo?" asked Mom finally.

"I'm not going to lie," I said, "when I saw Samir covered in your blood, I thought I'd lost you."

"But you didn't, sweetie," said Mom. "It's going to take more than bad aim and a few bullets to keep me down."

I knew Mom wasn't immortal, but the way she was totally without fear of death, and escaped from perilous situations mostly unharmed, I'd almost begun to believe she was.

"So, you're really walking away this time?" I asked.

"When have you known me to not do the things I've said, Mahdi?" said Mom, a hint of indignance in her voice. "Of course, I'm retiring. Right after I finish this last documentary. And that's where you come in."

"Me?" I said, "what do you need me to do?"

"To understand, sweetie," said Mom. "This last project, I'm doing it for a reason. I owe it to you to do it."

"What do you mean, Mom?" I asked.

My mom took a deep breath before answering.

"I know you've wondered why I never revealed the identity of your father, why I've refused to speak of him. It's time you ought to know."

Suddenly, my chest felt as if it were in a vice grip and I couldn't breath for a moment. My mouth felt like balls of cotton were in it.

"Wh-who?" I stammered. "Who's my father?"

"I'm sorry, Mahdi," said Mom, "but you're going to have to wait just a little longer. "Listen," my mom said as I begin to protest. "It's crucial that you listen to me. I knew the day would come where I would have to divulge the story about your father, and in secret, I've been working on my memoirs for the past three years. Once you go home, there's a large safe behind the Basquiat painting in my office. In that safe are installments of my memoirs. Read from chapters eight through fourteen. After you have read it, I will be ready to explain everything. Do not hold back, any questions you have, I will be prepared to answer. I owe you that."

I couldn't find the words I wanted to say, because my mind was whirring. I merely nodded my head.

"I love you Mahdi," said Mom, "I've achieved a lot of great things in my life. But my greatest achievement will always be you. Surely you know that."

"Of course," I said, "I love you too Mom."

I gripped her hand tight, just as Bertie had done moments ago.

"What time did you get here?" asked Mom.

"Around threeish," I said, "Why?"

"So, you haven't eaten yet?" said Mom, "well, go to the cafeteria and get you some food. Whether you want to leave or remain here is up to you, but I won't keep you any longer than you have to, I know you have classes later on."

"I have no choice, actually," I said grinning a little, "Nadira heard what happened and she's on her way."

"I look forward to seeing her then," said Mom, "go on, now, seek sustenance."

I didn't realize how hungry I was until my stomach emitted a low rumble. I headed for the door, thinking what kind of good eats they had in the cafeteria."

"Hey Mahdi?"

I turned back to face my mother once more.

"Yeah, Mom?"

"The pin to the safe is your birthday."


End file.
